


Though I've Handled the Wood, I Still Worship the Flame

by Pollys_hymnia



Series: Rare Pair Love Affair [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But I Love Them, Canon Divergence, Daeron performs at the Mereth Aderthad, Fluff, Fëanor gives him a gift, Light Angst, M/M, Mereth Aderthad, References to Fëanor's (semi) canonical death, They celebrate their reunion, crack ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-13 08:27:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19247500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollys_hymnia/pseuds/Pollys_hymnia
Summary: Sequel to 'The Ashes In My Wake.'  Fëanor survives into the first age.  After many years, he meets Daeron again at the Mereth Aderthad and they pick up where they left off.





	Though I've Handled the Wood, I Still Worship the Flame

**Author's Note:**

  * For [actuallyfeanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallyfeanor/gifts).



> Title from 'Would That I' by Hozier, full lyrics at the end.

Daeron had mixed feelings when he received word from Thingol that he was being sent to the Mereth Aderthad as a messenger.  He would not be alone—Mablung would be there with him—but there was much that both Mablung and the king did not know.  He remembered the last time he had seen Fëanor.  Seen him yes, his lips quirked into an ironic smile, but so much more than that had happened.

Daeron’s fingers gently touched his own lips, remembering vividly the press of Fëanor’s against them, and the heat and urgency that had followed.  It had been years, but he still remembered everything as though it were yesterday, as though the warmth of Fëanor’s body still lingered against his own.  And then there were the dreams.

Even so, everything was different now.  Daeron had always suspected some dark fate pursued Fëanor from the moment he first met him.  And now he knew what, and why. 

Some sins were unforgiveable.

So he told himself, over and over, as he rode out from under the trees of Neldoreth back into the wilds of Beleriand.  He ignored altogether the curl of anticipation that had settled deep in his chest.

 

He and Mablung were greeted courteously in Sindarin by a contingent of Fingolfin’s men.  Their words were kind, but Daeron’s eyes strayed to the swords that hung from their intricately enameled scabbards.  He was not oblivious to the vague sense of concealed threat that they carried.  Nevertheless, the guards escorted Daeron to a tent, and he was provided with a bath, which he was grateful for.  He rested, bathed, and readied himself for the feast. 

 

It was not what he had expected.  Daeron knew that many had been invited from the far corners of Beleriand, but he soon felt lost among the mulling crowd of strangers.  Mablung had wandered off, and Daeron felt himself lurking at the edges of the feast.  Then he heard music coming from the other side of the large, open field and began to gravitate toward its pull. 

He had half expected to see Maglor playing, but knew before he saw that it was not him.  The tune was pleasant and earnest, but simple. 

Daeron wedged himself into the ring of onlookers and saw Fingon playing his harp, singing a song of friends and family reunited in the hope of peace.  There was well deserved applause when he finished, and Daeron felt himself momentarily infected with a sense of enthusiastic hope.  Fingon rose and waved in appreciation to his listeners, clearly taking pleasure in the attention.  Maedhros walked over to him and whispered something in his ear.  Fingon rose and then his eyes found Daeron.

Fingon held his hand up to silence the crowd and spoke in a fair, strong voice, “We have here one renowned for his skill with music,” he gestured to Daeron, “Come friend, will you honor us with a song?”

Daeron hesitated only a moment before accepting the invitation.  He approached Fingon who offered up his harp.  There was a faint murmuring of voices but the crowd soon hushed in anticipation.  Daeron took the harp and sat upon the stool Fingon had previously occupied.  He paused a moment and rested his hands on the strings.  The song that came to mind first—a song of parting and not without regret—he quickly rejected in light of the current atmosphere of merrymaking. 

He gently plucked the strings and began instead a song of Cuiviénen.  The clear young stars were mirrored in the deep blue waters and the wind sighed softly through the trees.  The rush and exhilaration of new existence coursed like a river and beat like the heart.  Somewhere in the darkness, shadows lurked and stalked the night, but there was freedom under the open sky.  They were gathered now, huddled around a fire, singing in their joy.  The flame caught and grew, sending sparks high into the air to rise and join the stars.  And through the flame, eyes that held with a glance all the heat of the fire.  Their brightness near blinding, and in the burning he felt a desire to be consumed. 

Daeron felt a faint flush rise in his cheeks as he finished the song—he had not remembered the ending when he had begun.  Now in his mind, the fire of his memory faded, and as though through the smoke, his eyes were caught by another pair of eyes.  Clear, bright, grey eyes that he remembered too well.  As the onlookers applauded, Fëanor approached Daeron. 

A slow smile rose from Fëanor’s lips to his eyes as he drew near, “A magnificent song.” Fëanor, at least, continued to speak Quenya alone.

Daeron recovered his composure and passed the harp back to Fingon.  He stood and addressed Fëanor in Sindarin, “Thank you, it’s a… newer composition.  You may not speak our tongue, but I expect you have learned to understand it by now?”

“I have learned it yes, but I will not speak it.  Still, it is good to see you again.”

“And you as well.”  Daeron could tell by his face that Fëanor knew he was, at least in part, the inspiration for the song he had just sung. 

Fingon looked from Fëanor then back to Daeron, “Would you be so kind as to sing again?  They did not exaggerate your talent, your song was beautiful and…stirring.”

Daeron nodded, but Fëanor interrupted, “Yes, he will sing again.  But first, I have something for him.  A gift of goodwill.”

Daeron cocked his head curiously, “A gift?”

Fëanor smiled a sly smile and glanced off to his left, gesturing with his hand to one of his sons.  Daeron thought it must be Curufin, for they looked so much alike. 

Curufin turned and departed.  He reappeared shortly bearing with him a great harp.  The harp was inlayed with mithril filigree in a tracery of elegant branching patterns.  The column was shaped as a tree, Telperion it seemed, and a scattering of white gems shaped like stars trailed around the neck and shoulder, arranged like small flowers between the silver leaves.  Daeron stared at it, speechless.

Curufin sat the harp down in front of Daeron and arched an eyebrow, waiting somewhat impatiently for him to respond.  Fëanor stepped forward and took Daeron’s hand, placing it gently on the strings, “I hope you like it?”

Daeron felt at once a warmth enter him at Fëanor’s touch as it had years ago, he looked from where their hands were still entwined and then to Fëanor’s eyes.  A faint shiver rose through him under their gaze, though none but Fëanor could sense it.  The flush returned to Daeron’s cheeks, but he nodded politely and turned away to regard the harp, “I do, thank you.  This is a priceless gift and I can never hope to repay you for it.”

“You can, if you play it.  Sharing your music is better repayment than I could ever ask.”

“Your praise warms me, and I am deeply grateful.  I will do as you ask,” Daeron sat down again and drew the harp closer.  Fëanor and those around him watched closely and waited.

First Daeron strummed the strings gently to get a sense of the harp’s tuning.  The strings sang forth in a perfectly clear and smooth stream of notes.  Daeron smiled, he already knew this was the finest harp he had ever played or heard, and no wonder if it had been crafted by Fëanor. 

Daeron paused, calling to mind a tune.  His fingers fell softly on the strings and summoned the image of the quiet, still night full of stars.  Everything was as it had ever been.  Now in the east a pale light began to grow, and the rim of mountain peaks at the edge of sight began to glow subtly in the dimness.  A shining ray shot forth, driving back the shadows.  Slowly, moonlight broke over the dark lands, waking and stirring the growing things that had long slept.  The moon ascended into the sky, white and unblemished, a perfect silver blossom in the night. 

Daeron stopped for a moment and then began a new song, like to the first but growing in pitch and gathering different strains and intertwining them together.  The moon sailed the sky alone, outshining all the stars, and all hearts rejoiced in wonder.  But again, the eastern sky grew pale.  Another new light rose and now even brighter rays shone forth, painting the grey sky yellow then copper then crimson.  Color filled the silver world, bright and vibrant, like fire in its glory.  The sun rose in the first dawn, the first day began—a world changed, a world reborn.  The moon outshone the stars, but Arien outshone them all.  Trees and flowers stretched and grew toward her warmth and beauty, and even Tilion in his longing strayed too close.  Like a moth to a flame, untouchable, in the reckless joy of love unrequited, to approach the fire and let it burn.

The song wavered for a half second as Daeron, unwittingly, cast a glance at Fëanor.  He then picked up the tune again, singing of Tilion and his wandering, and his victory over the assault from Morgoth, and the separate paths of the sun and the moon that sometimes, though seldom, meet.

There was a long moment of silence after Daeron finished his song as each listener recalled in his own mind the memory of the first day and all the hope and all the trials that came with it, and those that were still to come. 

Fëanor broke the silence with enthusiastic applause and was soon joined by the ovation of the crowd.  Daeron rose and bowed his head modestly in gratitude.  Fëanor took his hand and kissed it, “Once more you overturn every expectation I had and have overwhelmed me with the perfect skill and beauty of your song.”

 

Many more songs were sung at the feast, by Daeron and by others.  Later that night when dawn was not far off and the other revelers had at last sought rest in their improvised beds, Daeron found himself alone with Fëanor.

Fëanor turned his piercing eyes on Daeron, “I once asked you if you would have other than your desire, but what now is your desire? Am I wrong in thinking it has changed?”

“You are not wrong, I have—had—loved Lúthien a long time.  Part of me always will.  But I have let her go, willingly and not.”

“That only answers half of my question,” Fëanor observed.

“Of course, then I will speak plainly what you must already have read in my songs.  I desire you.”

“Then you shall have me, and my adoration, and my love,” Fëanor once again took Daeron’s hand in his, “Long did I mourn our parting, and I have missed you.  Come with me now.”

 

Daeron followed as Fëanor led him to his tent—though tent was too humble a word for Fëanor’s kingly pavilion.  When they entered, Daeron saw that all the walls were hung with richly woven tapestries.  Mostly they depicted scenes from Valinor, but he marked a few that must be newer.  Behind the bed there hung a tapestry depicting the rising sun and setting moon over Beleriand.  The sun and moon were both made of shining jewels.  They were not so splendid as Silmarils, but they caught and held the candlelight in a changing play of colors.  Daeron thought he might like them better, there was something understated in their beauty that somehow enhanced it.

Daeron walked closer to admire the piece, “This is beautiful.”

Fëanor followed him closely, “One of my works since coming to this land, or the jewels at least.  One of my sons did the weaving.”

Daeron touched the cloth and then the jewels gently, “So skillful.”

Fëanor’s lips quirked into a smile as he stepped close enough that Daeron could feel the press of his body against his back, “My hands are quite skillful.”

“I have not forgotten,” Daeron murmured, turning his head toward Fëanor.

Fëanor quickly caught Daeron’s chin with his hand, pulling him closer to capture his lips in a kiss. 

 

The next morning they woke late together, side by side in bed.  Fëanor shifted upon waking and rolled toward Daeron, enwrapping him in his arms again, “I had a dream you had left.  Thank you for staying.”

Daeron laughed softly, “I couldn’t have left, even if I wanted to,” he made an illustrative but half-hearted attempted at escaping from Fëanor’s embrace.

Fëanor held him tighter and kissed him, “It could be like this, you know, every day.”

“I wish that were so.”

Fëanor inclined his head toward Daeron, “It could be so, if you would stay here with us, with me.”

Daeron paused then shook his head and withdrew somewhat from Fëanor, “No, as much as your offer appeals to me—and it does—I must return to Doriath.”

Fëanor’s face darkened slightly, “You needn’t live amongst the grey elves anymore.  You are far beyond them.”

“I am a grey elf, and we are neither backward nor rustic.  And I have a duty to my king.  That, at least, you must understand.”

“Duty I understand, yes… though some things may surpass it.  Love, for one.”

Daeron nodded slowly, “That… may be so.  Still, I cannot follow where you would lead me.  Duty may be broken, but your oath, I think, cannot be.”

Fëanor closed his eyes, feeling for the first time a hint of regret for his deeds.  It passed quickly.  “It needn’t stand between us, we are both enemies of the one enemy as you once reminded me.”

“Your doom and my doom are separate.  Even if you regain the Silmarils what then?  Your deeds…” Daeron trailed off and simultaneously pulled out of Fëanor’s arms and bed, “I should not be here.”

“My deeds were needful, unfortunate perhaps, but I did what was necessary.  I will always do what is necessary.”

Daeron smiled a wan smile, “So you could say, and justify many sins that way.  I wish I could remain here and forget everything… but I cannot.  I must go.”

A series of emotions passed visibly across Fëanor’s face in rapid succession: sadness, concern, anger, regret.  Finally his face fell into a blank mask, unwilling to humble himself past any further pleading, “Go then.”

Daeron felt deeply each emotion as though it passed from Fëanor into himself.  Nevertheless, he summoned the will to leave.  They parted at last in silence as Daeron pushed aside the draped fabric barring the entrance and left. 

Silence and regret.

 

Doom may be delayed but not denied.  Daeron returned once more to Doriath, more solemn perhaps than he had been.  Fëanor continued his war against Morgoth.  If he had always been driven by his wrath past any thought of caution, perhaps he was more so now.  He fought at the fore of his host, driving ever onwards, and so found himself surrounded by the enemy.  And so he was slain. 

And in the fire of his life and death, he was consumed to ash and smoke. 

When news came to Doriath of Fëanor’s deeds and of his death, Daeron could not say he was surprised.  He had long foreseen this end, but that did not make it any less bitter.  For whatever else he was, Fëanor was a great soul, and Daeron had loved him.  And now Daeron mourned his loss. 

Fëanor passed into memory, but Daeron recalled him often while sitting at his harp and playing.  The harp never sang so sweetly though as it had when it was first given to him, yet there was beauty in sorrow also.  And Daeron remembered both the sorrow of his loss and the joy of his love together in his heart.

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Would That I" by Hozier:
> 
> True that I saw her hair like the branch of a tree  
> Willow dancing on air before covering me  
> Under garden and calicoes  
> Over canopies that was long ago  
> True that love in withdrawal was the weeping of me  
> That the sound of the saw must be known by the tree  
> Must be felt 'fore the fight that calls  
> Threatened fire but that was long ago  
> And it's not tonight (Ooh)  
> When I'm set alight (Ooh)  
> I'm blinking so (Ooh)  
> Your blinding light (Ooh)  
> Oh, let's not tonight (Ooh)  
> When you hold me tight (Ooh)  
> Light the fire bright (Ooh)  
> Let it blaze alright (Ooh)  
> Oh, hope that you're good to me  
> Oh you're good to me  
> Hope that you're good to me, baby  
> With the roar of the fire my heart goes to its feet  
> Like the ashes of ash I saw eyes in the heat  
> Sitting soft in this purest snow  
> Fell in love with the fire long ago  
> Each love I could lose  
> I was never the same  
> Watch it's still living roots be consumed by the flames  
> I was fixed on your hand of gold  
> Laying waste to my loving long ago  
> And it's not tonight (Ooh)  
> When I'm set alight (Ooh)  
> I'm blinking so (Ooh)  
> Your blinding light (Ooh)  
> Oh, let's not tonight (Ooh)  
> When you hold me tight (Ooh)  
> Light the fire bright (Ooh)  
> Let it blaze alright (Ooh)  
> Oh, hope that you're good to me  
> Oh you're good to me  
> Hope that you're good to me, baby  
> So you know there I stood  
> As you licked off the grain  
> Though I've handled the wood, I still worship the flame  
> Long as ember, November glows  
> All the wood that I'd loved is long ago  
> And it's not tonight (Ooh)  
> When I'm set alight (Ooh)  
> I'm blinking so (Ooh)  
> Your blinding light (Ooh)  
> Oh, let's not tonight (Ooh)  
> When you hold me tight (Ooh)  
> Light the fire bright (Ooh)  
> Let it blaze alright (Ooh)  
> Oh you're good to me  
> Hope you're good to me  
> Hope that you're good to me, Oh  
> Oh Hope you're good to me  
> Hope you're good to me  
> Hope that you're good to me, baby


End file.
